


Genie

by clockworkmargaret (morganya)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Forced Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Sickfic, Sneezing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/clockworkmargaret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard gets kidnapped by an infatuated jazz genie. Vince needs to save him...if the lurgee doesn't get him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genie

The real find was there, buried amongst the children's toys, used clothing and assorted bits of tat that Naboo had brought back from his latest journey to distant lands or possibly Oxfam. Howard could hardly believe it. There they were, the crate peeking out from under a Leicester City jersey, records that Howard hadn't seen since he was seven, back when he earned his Junior Hard Bop Handler badge at Jazz Fanciers Club. They were all there – Capri Trousers Longholme, Dribbling Dixie, the Panda Annoying Five – if Howard didn't know better he'd think he'd died and gone to heaven.

His first thought was to gather up everything to take over to Lester's house, so they could have some stimulating conversation over some intense minor chords, but Lester was out of town having his ears retuned. More importantly, as shopkeeper, Howard Moon had a duty to the people of Dalston. He had to facilitate the bebop. He was well qualified to do that, probably. He'd put up the records and watch them flying off the shelves. No Vince Noir cheeky grins and doe eyes for him, no sir, he was going to sell these records by relying solely on his sheer animal sense of organization. Magnetism. He meant magnetism.

"Awright, Howard," Vince said, as the front door tinkled open and shut. He was late, as usual, but Howard was too lost in jazz bliss to tell him off. "What've you got there?"

"A treasure trove, Vince," Howard said. "Let this sink into your eyeballs." He pushed a raggedy soft toy out of the way and lifted the records out with the proper air of reverence.

"What, a crate?"

"No, not a crate, you –" Howard took a deep breath. Jazz bliss. Right. "What's in the crate. Aural treasures. These –" He put the crate on the counter and wafted his hand gently about the record sleeves. "Are the sounds of the people who have been slowly roasted in ragtime, braised in bossa nova, drenched in Dixieland –"

"Oh, _no_ , not jazz," Vince said. He was sprawled in the barber's chair, flicking through _Cheekbone_. He looked wrecked. Maybe that was some new phase he was trying, one that he hadn't told Howard about yet, the debauched popstar look, or something. Before Howard could ask about it, Vince cleared his throat and said, "Howard, I thought Naboo banned jazz from the shop after you had that little…"

"Not talking about that," Howard said. "Not talking about that ever again. Anyway, Naboo probably didn't know these were there. They were under a football jersey. More fool he. These are powerful, stunning works of art."

"Yeah, stunning. They stun everyone in…into… _huuh_ -" Vince dropped the magazine and sneezed into a cupped fist, jerking forward. " _Hashoo!_ Into a coma."

"Shut your mouth. And bless you. Anyway, Vince, they'll be lining up to buy these records within the hour. Before you know it, everyone in Dalston will be listening to Swollen Toe Rogers and Waxy Buildup Hopkins."

"Waxy Buildup Hopkins is a ridiculous name for a popstar."

"Well, he's not a popstar, is he? He's a blues musician. You need a nickname to play the blues. Otherwise you just won't make it."

"Robert Johansen," Vince said and swiped at his nose smugly.

"Who?"

"That bloke with the guitar and well cool suit that you made me look at. Nice hat."

Howard sighed. "That was Robert _Johnson_ , Vince. Johansen is one of your New York Dolls."

"More like the world's New York Dolls," Vince said, and sneezed again. He shook himself afterward, fringe swaying. "But he never had a nickname, did he? And according to you, all his bones were made of blues."

"Yeah, because he sold his soul to the devil. That's how it works. You get a nickname or you sell your soul to some powerful force. Otherwise, there'll be no blues for you, sonny jim."

"Well, that doesn't seem fair."

"Lady Jazz is a cruel mistress, Vince. I know that better than most people. She'll treat you kind one day and ruin your life the next."

"Does she at least let you bum her now and then?"

"Right," Howard said. "You may not be taking this seriously, but I am. I'm about to turn this crate into a dazzling record display for the punters, so unless you want to help, I'm off."

"You want to put a mirrorball in?" Vince said. "I woke up last week and I had a miniature mirrorball stuck in my barnet. Don't know even how it got there. Couldn't believe my luck."

"What would I do with a mirrorball – actually, yeah, that might be quite good. Cheers."

"Right," Vince said and slung himself out of the chair. "I sellotaped it to the bedroom ceiling, but it's not as shiny up there as I wanted it to be. It'll look brilliant down here, though. I'll just run upstairs and…huh… _Hapshht!_ Uh."

Howard Moon was many things, but unobservant was not one of them. "What's the matter, are you ill?"

"I just sneezed, Howard. People do occasionally sneeze."

"You don't look well," Howard said. What he'd thought was another one of Vince's phases now looked entirely more prosaic; his face was pale and drawn and there were bruised-looking shadows under his eyes. Howard put the records aside. "I can –"

Vince stepped back, hands up to preemptively ward Howard off. "It's because I'm allergic to your stupid jazz. Any minute now my arm's going to go all red."

"You've been sneezing all morning."

"I have not."

"You sneezed on my toast at breakfast."

"We're out of butter. I was doing you a favor."

"Vince –"

"Only _boring_ people get ill," Vince explained. "No way I'd be caught dead with a cold." It might have been convincing if he hadn't coughed at the end of the sentence.

"Keep carrying on like this, you'll be caught dead with pneumonia."

"I'm _fine_ ," Vince rasped.

"Right," Howard said. "You're fine. Don't come crying to me when the lurgee sets in. 'Howard, make me tea, bring me cakes. Howard, I'm cold, let me steal all your blankets.' No, I'm afraid you're on your own."

"Do you want the bloody mirrorball or not?"

Howard considered sticking to his principles for a brief second. "Yeah, I still want it."

"All right then." Vince clomped up the stairs leading to the flat, sniffling self-righteously.

"Stupid stubborn git," Howard said to the empty space, and stared at the records. He lifted them out of the crate carefully and fanned them out on the counter. If Vince brought down his mirrorball they might be able to make some sort of tiny stage out of the crate, the records revolving on bobby pins with the mirrorball up above. He should see if Vince had any spare bobby pins.

There was a harsh rushing sound somewhere by Howard's ear, and the lights in the shop flickered. The records on the counter shot straight up in a cyclone, sleeves flapping. Howard yelped and stumbled backward, tripping and landing flat on his arse on the floor.

The rushing sound stopped. When Howard dared to open his eyes, there were records lying all over the floor and someone or something was sitting on the counter and gazing at him.

"Well, _hello_ , gorgeous," the creature said, sounding reasonably male. He was made up of what seemed to be a thousand different animal skins, some leathery, some feathery, some scaly, some furry, some shimmery, and his eyes were very dark. 

"Please don't kill me," Howard said.

"Tell me, did it – what?"

"Don't kill me. I've got so much to give."

"Kill you? What sort of gentleman do you think I am? What might your name be?"

Howard waited. When he seemed to be still alive after a good few seconds, he said, "…Howard?"

"Howard," the creature breathed. "Lovely name for a lovely lady. You may call me Umber."

"Hello," Howard said. "I'm going to leave now."

"Oh no!" Umber jumped off the counter. Some of his leather/fur/scales/whatever fell off and landed on the floor in a dusty heap. "I've come from such a very long way away. Let me bask in your presence for a while."

"I have to…go get something removed. Right now. It's doing me in. Must dash."

"But you're perfect. You're Trane playing One Down, One Up at the Half Note. You're Billie Holiday singing My Man at the Downbeat. You're every single performance of Chet Baker's My Funny Valentine. Why remove anything?"

It was bad enough that Umber had crashed into Howard's shop and that he was probably a demon or a serial killer of some kind, but now he was taking the mickey. "Listen –"

"I have listened. Your soul spoke to me from across the heavens."

"I'm pretty sure it didn't."

"It did. Your rich, frothy soul, the sweetest song ever played. Once I heard its dulcet tones vibrating through the ether, I said, 'Umber,' I said, 'don't let this one get away or you'll regret it for the rest of your life.'"

Howard had no idea what this lunatic was talking about. He needed to keep his head clear, formulate a plan. Which he would do immediately once he stopped being terrified. "Now see here, Umber –"

"Go back to my place? I thought you'd never ask!" Umber leapt forward.

"No!" Howard shouted, but it was already too late.

*****

It took ages to get the mirrorball looking properly shiny again. Part of the problem was that Vince might have been slightly overzealous with the sellotape, and it had gone tacky, which meant some delicate cleaning was in order. The other problem was that his nose was running and he didn't want to get any snot on the sparkles.

Finally he got it right. He wrapped the thin chain around his fingers and twirled the mirrorball around, watching its pretty little rainbows reflect on the wall. He snapped out of it when he realized that Howard was still downstairs, probably making a poor attempt at making a glamourous window display, and he was in sore need of Noir assistance. Vince regretfully ceased twirling and headed for the door, hoping Howard had forgotten about earlier. Howard had a tendency to fuss, which Vince enjoyed when there was cause for it, but not when everything was fine.

When he was a kid, back in the forest, if he ever woke up feeling a bit weird, he'd just go chew on some leaves or plunge his face in the river and go about his day, and he hardly even noticed how he felt. Maybe sometimes, if it was getting dark and the house was in danger of blowing away, he'd go find the leopards and settle in for a cuddle, curling into a warm, dusty flank while they rumbled gently at him, _Funny little skin and bones, my little big-eyed boy_.

Things had been a lot easier in the forest, mostly. Then he got older.

Vince sneezed against his wrist and peered down the stairs for signs of Howard attempting to create something. Howard tended to groan and huff more than usual when he was flexing that particular part of his brain, but he was being unusually quiet now.

"Howard," Vince called, "I finally found it." But there was no answer, and when he went down to the shop to investigate, Howard was nowhere to be seen. Howard's creepy jazz records were all over the counter and the floor and there was a pile of pelts that hadn't been there before lying next to the mess.

"Ah, shit," Vince said.

He picked the pelts up and went to find Naboo. Usually when something happened, Naboo had an inkling about what it was.

He found Naboo in his room with Bollo, the two of them looking pensively at some of Naboo's magic ingredients. They were either planning a potion or stoned out of their minds or more probably both.

"Awright, Naboo, Bollo," Vince said.

Naboo cast his dark eyes up lazily. "Awright, Vince." 

"Howard's disappeared," Vince explained. "We got some new records in –"

"Jazz?" Naboo asked.

"Yeah," Vince said, and Bollo groaned. "I know, Bollo, but he got all excited. You know what he's like. Then I went upstairs and when I came down again, he was gone, the records were everywhere, and I found this." He handed over the pelts.

Naboo gave the pelts the briefest of glances before declaring them as, "Jazz genie."

"A _what_?" Vince said.

"Jazz genie," Naboo said. "He must have come through the space between your world and the World of Sound. Distant cousin of the Jean Genie."

"The Jean Genie's got Howard?" Vince asked hopefully.

"Jazz genie. Much less cool."

"Oh," Vince said. "Well, where are we going? Are we going to the World of Sound? Are we going – " The question got interrupted by a sneeze he wasn't prepared for, a harsh "Huuhshoo!" that bent him double. "Sorry."

"You should go to bed," Bollo said.

"Yeah, I'm all right, actually," Vince said, waving Bollo off. Bollo had a good heart but little awareness of his own strength, and his attempts at helping usually resulted in contusions and minor fractures.

"You ill?" Naboo said. "I could do you up a shaman smoothie. It won't cure you, but you'll be so off your tits that you won't even care."

"Bollo get bronchitis, drink smoothie," Bollo agreed. "Stand in the corner for eight hours thinking he is a lost sock."

"Sounds genius," Vince said. "But we've got to get Howard. Where can we find the jazz genie?"

"Well, you could ask at the Moldy Fig," Naboo said after some thought. "It's a night club. The genie's usual home away from home."

"How do we get there?" Vince asked eagerly. "Magic carpet? Flying saxophone? Float there on a cascade of minor chords?"

"It's just downtown. You can probably walk."

" _What_?"

"I told you jazz genies weren't that cool. Also Bollo and I can't go there. We've been banned."

"How'd you get banned?"

Naboo gave Bollo an icy look. Bollo said, "Barman is arsehole. He knows what he did."

"So I shouldn't mention your names then," Vince said.

"No," Naboo said.

"Guess I'm off then," Vince said. "Don't wait up." He headed down the stairs and out the door, coughing.

"I got a bad feeling about this," Bollo said.

*****

The straps around Howard's wrists and ankles were tight. He could move his fingers and toes, and the blood seemed to be still flowing through him, but there was no give in the black silk holding him to the chair. He'd never wanted to gesticulate more in his life.

Blue in Green was playing softly on the record player. On the table next to Howard were a steaming cup of builders and a plate of cheese and pickle – his very favorites – and the breeze was coming in through the picture window, ruffling the cushions by the window seat. The walls were lined with books and records.

If this were a different day, Howard would be rolling on the floor with delight. Then he'd pick himself up and settle in by the window with a book, stretching out like a drowsy cat in the sun, letting the music run to the end and then pick up again, and when he'd finished reading he would maybe do a bit of reorganizing, the kind that he usually did when he felt like driving Vince a bit mad, and then there'd be tea and he'd have had a very productive day. In some other setting, it'd be perfect.

A setting where he hadn't been kidnapped and tied to a chair, for instance.

Umber came into the room, clutching an armful of magazines. Howard stiffened, thinking he was about to be eaten or worse, but Umber just gave him what may have been an indulgent smile (it was hard to tell with his features), and settled down in a dandery heap, leafing through the pages.

Umber hadn't so much as laid a finger-claw-hoof-whatever on him since the shop. Howard had simply found himself in this room, tied to a chair, but otherwise unharmed. He was going mad going through the possibilities of what was in store for him.

"Darling," Umber said, interrupting Howard's panicking, "what do you think about crabcakes?"

"I…" Howard tried desperately to work out whether crabcakes could be code of some sort. "I've never thought about them one way or another."

"Everyone always has chicken or salmon, but no one can ever get those right, can they? I thought a crabcake would be much more sophisticated. With a bit of mustard sauce perhaps. Green salad."

"Are you making dinner? What are you –"

Umber laughed. "Silly. Of course it's a dinner, _our_ dinner, for our wedding."

"Wedding?" Howard said. He repeated it five or ten times until it sunk in. "You're a lunatic!"

"At first I thought a simple civil service, but a destination wedding sounds so appealing…we could go to New York. Or Havana. We'll have cocktails at dusk."

"We're not even _engaged_!" Howard said. "I haven't got a ring, have I?"

"Oh, darling –" Almost immediately Umber was crouching before him, hands out in supplication. "Of course you're right. How can we have a destination wedding when I can't even afford to give you a ring? A civil service, that's the best thing. What would I do without you to bring me down from my mad flights of fancy?"

"Untie me," Howard said with an attempt at authority. "Untie me right now."

"I promise it'll all work out," Umber said. "Maybe we'll live on lemonade and kisses for a while, but I can provide you with a good home. Our children won't go hungry."

"You're not right in the brain. And you're not right in the ears."

Umber picked up the magazines. "I'll just take all these away and re-plan, shall I? Something simple. Simple but sophisticated. Don't worry about a thing."

" _Let me go, you daft bastard_!" But Umber was gone, leaving a trail of feathers behind him.

Howard wrenched against the straps. His thought was that he could utilize the power of physics to hop over to the window and throw himself out of it, chair and all, and just hope for the best. The chair stayed put. Either Howard was feeble or it was nailed to the floor.

On the occasions when Howard pictured having children, he'd thought he'd be raising them close to home, so they could get a well-rounded education with Howard providing worldly knowledge and expert musical ability and Vince distracting them with shiny things when they got tired. He had never once thought he'd be raising a gaggle of furry, feathery, leathery mites with an absolute stranger and when the children would inevitably ask how Mummy and Daddy met he'd have to say that Daddy kidnapped Mummy and didn't give Mummy any say in the matter and their poor little minds would be traumatized forever.

The record began to skip. It seemed fitting.

*****

There was smoke coming from out of the bottom of the Moldy Fig's front door, along with music that made Vince's spine prickle. The door was colored a faded shade of puce. Vince muttered darkly, " _Jazz_ ," and went inside.

It was louder inside, and smokier, and the combination was enough to send a small, angry wasp straight up Vince's nose. It ricocheted around his sinuses, having a right strop. He would have loved to get it out with one rollicking sneeze, but that seemed out of the question. The sneeze hovered just out of reach, teasing and burning his eyes while the wasp bashed around the inside of his nose. Vince sniffed.

The people in the club were looking at him. He was used to that ordinarily; he'd walk into somewhere looking fabulous and everyone would gasp and whisper and flutter about him, and something in his chest would trill happily for a second or two and then things would go on as normal. This was different. Now everyone was staring at him from behind their sunglasses, their mouths set like he was some electro tramp who'd just burst their precious jazz bubble. Even their berets were cocked judgmentally at him.

Vince wondered if this was how Howard felt most of the time.

He squared his shoulders and went up to the bar, ignoring the stares. The barman was pretending to be looking at something in the near distance. Vince said, "Hello. Have you seen a jazz genie about?"

The music screeched to a halt. There was a collective gasp behind him. Vince blinked.

The barman stared at him accusingly. He had huge goggle eyes that whirled and whirled. "What do you know of the jazz genie?"

"Well, nothing, really," Vince said. "Only my mate Howard's disappeared, and I thought –"

"We do not speak of the jazz genie to strangers!" shouted the barman.

 _Bloody Naboo_ , Vince thought. "I only wanted to know where to find him."

"How _dare_ you! You walk in here wearing your second-hand tat –"

Vince was getting annoyed. "This is high fashion, begging your pardon."

"We don't just let anyone in here, you know. Only last week we threw out a gorilla and a tiny Aladdin lookalike for making a highly unpleasant scene. This is a classy establishment."

"Your door policy needs work, then, doesn't it?" Vince said spitefully. His nose was on fire.

"Quiet, interloper," the barman hissed. "I've sworn to protect the privacy of our clientele. Just because some pop music trollop wanders in and demands that I give her the name of every Tom, Dick and Django who frequents the place doesn't mean I'm going to be swayed."

Vince was going to go full South London on everyone in this club. He reached for the eyeliner pencil in his back pocket, planning to start by stabbing the barman right in his goggle eyes. It was right then that the sneeze that had been hovering out of his reach decided to arrive, rushing through his head and chest and throat, and he had to abandon any other plans except for grabbing a handful of cheap napkins from the bar and clamping them over his face before he exploded.

The fit left him gasping and coughing, his eyes streaming and his throat raw, the napkins reduced to mulch in his fingers. The barman looked somewhere between disgusted and impressed. He said, "Maybe it says something for your audacity that you come bringing the plague into our house."

"Yeah, I'm all right, actually," Vince managed.

The barman said, struggling to bring himself back into high dudgeon, "You might try to move me to pity, but you'll get none. I am sworn to protect our clientele. I can never reveal that the jazz genie keeps a flat three blocks west of here, at the end of the alley, by the graffiti of the purple cat. I will not –"

"Right, cheers," Vince said, and turned to leave.

"Oh. Oops," the barman said.

"For fuck's sake, Steve!" someone shouted.

"I got _flustered_!" the barman said. Vince hustled out before anyone could stop him.

Outside it was cold, and foggy, but blissfully jazzless. Vince began heading west, happy to be out of that stupid club with those stupid people who listened to stupid creepy music and wore stupid clothes and stared at him with their stupid judging eyes. He didn't know why anyone would ever go into a place like that willingly, unless their mate was lost and they needed to find them. And he would have thought someone would have tried to be helpful, not an absolute titbox who'd never be as cool as Vince was, ever –

Vince's head and chest were full of gunk. His nose was running. He was freezing and his entire body ached. He didn't feel cool at all, he just felt miserable. He wished he'd listened to Howard in the first place.

Finally, he found the graffiti of the purple cat. At the end of the alley was a trellis covered in ivy, which seemed to be the only way into the building. For a second Vince hoped he had the wrong alley, but then he heard the sounds of jazz floating down from the open window above him, along with faint sounds of whimpering that could only be Howard, scared out of his mind.

Vince sighed, wiped his nose on his wrist, and began to climb.

*****

Umber hadn't come back for quite some time. Howard wasn't sure what he would do next. Probably make Howard pick out bridesmaid's dresses or choose flower arrangements. Howard was going to stage a silent protest but he doubted that would work.

The window creaked and Howard flinched. For a crazy second he thought Umber was pulling a Rapunzel stunt on him and braced himself, but then a shock of dyed black hair popped up from the window sill and there was Vince, covered in leaves and looking much the worse for wear. Howard could have kissed him on the mouth.

"Awright, Howard," Vince said tiredly. He heaved himself into the room.

"Vince, you've got to get me out of here," Howard said. "It's Umber. He's all wrong. He says he wants to marry me. He wanted a destination wedding but that wasn't practical so we'll have to have a civil service and then he'll want a honeymoon and I don't think this is a good environment for the children to grow up in!"

"All right, all right," Vince soothed. He came and undid Howard's straps. Howard rotated his wrists and struggled to his feet. "Hey, Howard, you ever been to a club called the Moldy Fig?"

The name sent a pang through Howard's stomach. "What?"

"I had to go there to ask where you were, and –"

"I tried to go there once. The barman told me I'd been corrupted by fusion music. Said he could smell it on me. He threw me out on the street and I skinned up the entire right side of my body. It was humiliating. I _told_ you about it."

"Oh," Vince said. "I suppose I forgot."

"Yeah, I suppose you did."

Just then the door opened and Umber came in with an air of purpose, saying, "Darling –" Howard quickly moved in front of Vince. Now that he was out of the chair, he had regained his catlike reflexes and Yorkshire tenacity, and he was ready to go at Umber like a secateurs.

But Umber just stopped in his tracks, staring, and finally said, "Howard! You didn't tell me you were already married!"

Howard and Vince looked at each other. Vince shrugged at Howard. Howard said, "Uh. Well. Yes. I'm married. We're married. To each other. In a married way. I tried to tell you, but what with all the…kidnapping and everything, you didn't seem that interested."

"But –" Umber thought for a minute. "Oh. Oh. You did, didn't you? Oh, Howard, what you must think of me! A homewrecker! A cad! Taking you from your beloved's sickbed…"

"I'm all right, actually," Vince said.

"Shut it, Vince," Howard said out of the corner of his mouth.

"I can never live with myself knowing I stole my lady away from her one true love. 'But it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all…' You must go. I wish you every happiness. Don't worry about me. I'll move on."

"Right, thanks," Howard said, and began looking for the door.

Umber sank onto the floor and burst into tears.

"Oh," Howard said. He had no idea what to do. "Well. Uh. Hmm." He looked desperately at Vince.

"Howard, what'd you say his name was?" Vince asked.

"Umber."

Vince knelt down on his haunches beside Umber. "Umber, you know you can't just walk around kidnapping people you fancy, don't you?"

"Yes," Umber sobbed.

"Maybe you can try asking them for drinks? Going to the cinema? Things like that?"

"I asked at the Fig. They told me this was how everyone did it."

"Well, there's your first problem," Vince said. "They're right ballbags down at the Fig. If I were you I'd stop going there. Don't you live next to the World of Sound? That sounds genius. There must be lots of places there. Somewhere they play a bit of Gary Numan once in a while. Human League. Something _fun_. And stop kidnapping people and trying to marry them against their will."

"Oh," Umber said. "Okay then." Just as Howard thought he was pulling himself together, he began crying all over again. "But I'll never find another woman as beautiful and wonderful as Howard! It's hopeless!"

"Yeah, have you ever heard of Camden?" Vince asked.

"Camden?"

"Oh, yeah. It's a playground. Full of people like Howard. As long as you don't go mad on them, you'll do fine."

"Cam-den," Umber said experimentally. "Camden. Don't kidnap people, don't try to marry them if they don't want to, listen to fun music. That's all?"

"That's all."

"Okay," Umber said. He looked wistfully at Howard. "Goodbye, sweet Howard. You can let yourself out through the back way." Then he disappeared in a flurry of feathers and fur.

Vince stood up, sniffling. "You're like a magnet for nutters. I blame jazz."

"You always say that. You break a nail, you blame jazz. Sky's a bit cloudy, you go and blame it on the jazz. What're you going to pin on jazz next, climate change?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Vince said. "I try to get you to listen to proper music but - _Hhh-tschooo_! Ugh." His shoulders sagged. He looked exhausted and utterly miserable. "I'm really ill, Howard. Can we go home now?"

 _I knew it_ , Howard thought. He beckoned Vince to the door, saying, because he couldn't resist, "Home? Sure about that? Don't fancy a bit of nightclubbing?"

"Shut your mouth," Vince said, but his smile was small and crooked.

"Let's go then," Howard said. "You can fill me in on everything that's happened on the way back."

By the time they reached the flat, Vince was dead on his feet. Howard only just managed to get him up the stairs, hovering a hand about his back just in case. As soon as he hit the landing, Vince stumbled into the living room and flopped onto the settee, pulling his shoes off and dropping them on the floor. Howard promptly abandoned any plans to get him into his room and into bed, and went to gather up whatever blankets he could find.

Naboo and Bollo popped their heads out of their room as Howard was coming back laden down with various bedcovers and a tissue box twice the size of Vince's head. Naboo said, "Vince finally admit that he's ill?"

"See for yourself," Howard said dryly, motioning with his head to where Vince was curled up in a shivering ball on the settee.

"Awright, Vince?" Naboo called.

"I'm dying," Vince moaned.

"For the last time, no, you're not," Howard said. Vince moaned again in response.

"I'll make him a shaman smoothie," Naboo said. "It'll sort him right out."

"Yeah, he told me about that. Thing is, Naboo, I don't think eight hours of thinking he's a sock is going to do him much good at the moment. You don't think you and Bollo could just pop out and get some proper medicine?"

Naboo thought for a minute, then said, "Yeah, all right. Come on, Bollo."

"Thanks," Howard said. Naboo smiled and Bollo shrugged in response. On the way out, Naboo said, "Feel better, Vince," and Bollo reached over and very gently patted Vince's head with his great paw, saying, "Sleep soon."

Howard gave Vince all the blankets and put the tissues within reach. Vince immediately burrowed into the covers and the shivering slowed down a little. Howard said, "Cup of tea? Piece of cake?"

Vince looked at him. Howard watched his tiny brain trying to choose between sleep or sugary baked goods. Finally he said quietly, "Tea. Cheers."

Howard went to put the kettle on. He gathered supplies while the water boiled, listening to Vince cough and blow his nose in the other room and wishing that Vince's tastes ran more to heartier fare than to sweets, but some food was better than no food. He put some cakes on a plate for Vince – parkin, lemon drizzle, Bakewell – and got bread and cheese for himself, whistling contentedly. It had been another weird day in the life of Howard Moon, but he was back in familiar surroundings and he was unreasonably glad of it.

When Howard came back out with Vince's mug and plate, Vince had hauled himself into a sitting position, keeping a blanket wrapped around him. He took the tea with a weary smile and said, "You don't want to come too close, Howard. Germs are bouncing off me like a trampoline."

"You've probably already given it to me," Howard pointed out. He put the cakes in front of Vince. "I'm just waiting for it to sprout."

"Oh," Vince said. "Sorry."

"Eh, we share everything else," Howard said, and went to get his own tea.

Vince ate cake like a mouse with thumbs, breaking off tiny pieces and popping them in his mouth. He managed a slice and a half, slowly, before he gave up. "I like your cakes, but - eyes were bigger than my stomach, I reckon," he said, and swallowed the rest of his tea.

"Need another cup?" Howard said around a mouthful of cheese.

"Don't know yet," Vince said, and sneezed muffledly into a tissue. He blew his nose. "Hey, Howard –"

"Hmm?"

Vince didn't answer for a minute. He scrubbed at his nose and said finally, "I could go for some telly."

"Right," Howard said and flicked it on, changing channels until he found something which seemed brightly colored enough for Vince. He was bored of it after five minutes and so, it seemed, was Vince; he was sliding down the settee, eyes half-lidded and breathing thick.

"Sure you wouldn't rather go to bed?" Howard asked. "It might be more comfortable."

"I'd rather stay with you," Vince said sleepily, and then stiffened. "I - I mean –"

"Oh," Howard said. He felt himself blushing. Vince was probably just feverish and feeling vulnerable, but still. Howard was only human. "Well, fine then."

For a while Vince was so quiet that Howard was sure he had fallen asleep, but then he said again, "Hey, Howard?"

"Yes, Vince."

"Could –" Vince touched the back of Howard's hand with warm fingers. Ordinarily this would spark off a whole round of Don't Touch Me, but it had been a long, long day, and Vince was ill and he liked cuddles on these occasions, which meant that exceptions could be made. Howard huffed softly but moved a little closer.

Vince inched forward and rested his face against Howard's thigh, mumbling something about leopards. Howard supposed it was related to his time in the forest. He'd ask Vince about it later. Right now he just brushed the sweaty hair away from Vince's forehead absently.

"You can watch one of your sad documentaries if you like," Vince said against his trouser leg. "I'm not going to be awake much longer."

"There's a fascinating program about dryer lint on," Howard said. "I may watch that."

"Well, that sounds suitably repulsive."

"Education as entertainment, sir." Howard pressed the back of his hand to Vince's cheek. He was far too warm. "I'll wake you when Naboo and Bollo get back and shove some tablets down your neck."

"Mm."

"Funny Umber thought we were married, wasn't it?"

"Was it?"

"What do you mean?" Howard asked, but Vince was already asleep, snoring softly in his lap, and Howard thought it best not to pursue the question.


End file.
